


Seven(mas) Jumpers, Seven(mas) Days

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And depends on your definition of fluff really, Fluff and Humor, Honestly it is fluff, Just with Ramsay, Light BDSM, M/M, Never lose a bet with Dany because she'll make you wear jumpers, Office Party, Quite a lot of R'hllor, Ramsay in Sevenmas jumpers oh my, Ramsay is his own warning, Ramsay's idea of romance is singular, Seven Jumpers Seven Days, Slightly BDSM for the holidays, Smoking, Swearing, Thankfully Beric's is a bit screwed up as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Beric Dondarrion owns a high-end tailoring shop in King's Landing - army sewing skills are useful for something. Everything's perfectly fine, and normal, and boringly ordinary, until a short and psychopathic Bolton stalks into his fine establishment and demands seven Sevenmas jumpers in seven days. Try saying that when you're drunk, by the way.When you've not been laid for years, and all the people you see (apart from Oberyn Martell) are geriatric, then of course you'll start thinking about having kinky sex with the man who you get all of the geeky sweaters for, aren't you?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnowWhiteKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/gifts).



> This started out as a conversation with me and @snowwhiteknight about whether Ramsay could do anything romantic. So I wrote a fic. A Sevenmas fic. Because, dammit, jumpers. Awesome, wonderful jumpers.
> 
> Ramsay's idea of romantic might not be the same as everyone else's. No. Not at all.
> 
> Spot the knitting geekery in here. Yeah.

* * *

 

 

**_Day 1_ **

 

The usual clientele of  _ Dondarrion’s _ are, putting it charitably, old. They cling to excellent tailoring and tasteful fabric with their almost dead, hideously wealthy, talons, and are reassured that their sports jackets and slacks are altered by a man with military colours worn upon the pocket of his perfectly fitting suit. They are, after all, hideous snobs. They sport ties from minor public schools, and, as Beric has the name and the accent, they’re thrilled to be attended to by a man of a similar aristocratic background to themselves. They talk about the War with a frightening nostalgia, and probe rather too insistently into the origin of Dondarrion’s scars.

 

The shop sits on the eastern side of Street of Silk. Everything is handsome. Expensive. Beric, who learned to sew out of necessity in the army, can never quite believe that people pay him that much for clothing.

 

He’s great at what he does. Naturally stylish himself, a peacock with a taste for rich colours and fabrics (though he prefers rather muted tones on his own body), he understands what looks good.

 

The bell rings, and he looks up from browsing Amazon for last minute presents. Edric is a horror to buy for.

 

A young man, mostly in leather, stalks towards him.

 

“Can I help?” he asks. The young man, who has fascinatingly pale eyes and a squarish fascinatingly pale face, gives him what can be described as, accurately, a death glare.

 

“Sevenmas jumper. Now.”

 

“We don’t really have the widest ra-”

 

“Don’t care. Put it on Dad’s account, I don’t give a shit how much it costs.”

 

Account. Beric considers, taking in the arrogance, the set of the jaw, the still fascinating pale eyes that bore hating holes into his own. “Of course, Mr. Bolton.”

 

The young man’s mouth twitches. He has surprisingly pretty lips for someone who looks as if he’d rather be murdering peasants.

 

He brings out what they have in stock. Beric buys in what he himself likes; he has excellent taste after all. His Sevenmas sweater range is small yet interesting, made of cashmere and alpaca fibres blended for their skin-caressing qualities, knitted by hand in traditional Bear Isle and Iron Island patterns by master craftswomen who are paid handsomely for their talents.

 

“They’re all shit,” young Mr. Bolton hisses.

 

Beric runs a practiced eye over the person before him, the insult bouncing off sergeant’s skin.

 

“Perhaps this?” he offers, bringing something very special out from under the counter.

 

Usually he doesn’t allow acrylic anywhere near his shop, but this amused him to the point where he’s actually bought this for himself. He smoothes the soft black cloth over the heavy oaken counter, silvery embroidery bumping under his needle-calloused fingertips.

 

Young Mr. Bolton stares at the design, before his mouth cracks into a certain vicious grin. He strips off his leather jacket, leaving him in a rather fitted black t-shirt that Beric professionally agrees is quite the perfect amount of clingy, then wriggles into the jumper, exposing his surprisingly toned white stomach. Usually Dondarrion itches to see a spot of colour on one who wears all black, but apart from a sudden urge to find scarlet silk and wind it about the young man’s throat, there is nothing he would change.

 

“I like it,” and the words crackle with an unwilling pleasedness. “You got any other nerdy shit?”

 

“I can get more for you, if you’d like?”

 

“Need a new one every day for a sodding week.” The leather coat slithers back on. Beric wonders what this pale/dark man would be like in bed. Angry. Malevolent. Just the right edge of violent. “Get me more. I’ll be back tomorrow. Black. If not, red. Not your normal Sevenmas shit either. This one’s a bit big.”

 

“That is actually my jumper,” Beric says. “Would you prefer medium or large? Just fitted or tighter in the torso?” For a short man, and he’s adorably pocket-sized if tending towards the erotically murderous, young Mr. Bolton has truly epic shoulders.

 

“You know best.” The odd eyes rake up Beric’s chest, fix upon his face. “Nice scars. They go all the way down?”

 

Medium. It’d be such a waste to conceal that body.

 

“Most of the way,” he adds almost an afterthought, and Bolton grins.

 

No. Bolton leers.

 

Visions of sugarplums and perverted sex dance in Beric’s head.

 

* * *

 

**_Day 2_ **

 

“Why are you needing seven jumpers in seven days?” Beric assesses the fit with a critical eye. If he had time, he’d bring the silhouette a little slimmer, shorten the sleeves a tad. Ramsay - his name is Ramsay - wears long motorcycle boots to mid calf, and jeans, and the deep red Deadpool sweater (“Merry Chimichanga!”) sets his northern colouring off to perfection.

 

He’s a little like Deadpool, and Beric, happily finding his client is just as nerdy as him and this means they are actually bonding, considers that a plus. Everyone needs a psychopathic mercenary with a big mouth in their life who promises rampant and deviant sex. How very Wade Wilson. Of course Beric would do Deadpool. He’s only human, after all.

 

“Lost a bet at work. Bitches told me that I’ve got to try and get into the Sevenmas spirit, all that shit. I’m Old Gods.”

 

“Couldn’t you go to HR for discrimination? Forcing you to take part in a tradition that isn’t yours could be considered bullying.” Beric runs the amount through the till, adds it to Lord Bolton’s expansive but always paid on time bill. Roose comes in with his wife, who is adorable and has her husband wrapped tightly and lovingly around her little finger. He has a black Iron Bank of Braavos credit card, and a taste that runs towards the frighteningly austere. 

 

Ramsay snorts, examines himself in the mirror, uses the glass to look up at Beric. “Using rules to torment people?”

 

“I was a sergeant,” he points out. “It’s my speciality.”

 

“Did you kill people?”

 

Beric pauses. “Perhaps.”

 

Ramsay’s eyes glitter. “Want to tell me about it?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Shame. Death’s sexy. Like your scars.”

 

* * *

 

**_Day 3_ **

 

“They didn’t know who Deadpool was. I almost stabbed them with a letter opener. I’ve got my own. It’s in the shape of Sting.”

 

Ramsay’s bought coffee for them both. It’s black and bitter, just like himself. Just like how Beric prefers his hot drinks and the souls of his boyfriends.

 

“You are quite Hobbity.”

 

“That make you Boromir then?” The smirk is merciless. “Pervy Hobbit fancier.”

 

“Who didn’t know who Deadpool was?” Much easier to change the subject than acknowledge that Bolton knows of the physical appreciation that’s happening. Their five minute snarling session the first day of  _ Seven Jumpers, Seven Days _ has expanded to about twenty minutes chatter complete with great big gouts of slightly dodgy flirting. It’s not Beric’s fault. He’s not used to good looking young men descending and demanding his time and attention. The last time he got laid was before he got ‘friendly fire to the face,’ and that was having R’hllor flavoured sex with Thoros. He doesn’t count, because Thoros sleeps with everyone. “What sort of place do you work where you’re around people who’ve never heard of Deadpool?”

 

“Law firm.”

 

Beric blinks. “You’re a lawyer?”

 

“Shit, no. Imagine me in court? I do the IT stuff.”

 

“I could imagine you in court. Just more in the dock being sentenced for crimes against humanity than being on the side of good.”

 

Bluntly thick fingers adjust the Batman Bear Isle knit that Ramsay sports. “Get me a Joker one for tomorrow? Bruce Wayne isn’t chaotic enough.”

 

* * *

 

**_Day 4_ **

 

He’s late coming in, and Beric makes himself sit down with a cup of tea and the newspaper rather than worrying. Ramsay’s Ramsay. He’s done research, like all good tailors do, and has discovered rather fascinating and salient points about his favourite Sevenmas jumper wearing customer.

 

  1. Definitely psychopathic. Hugely fascinating, like poking a cut or a bruise.
  2. Massive and angry internet presence, mostly on computer gaming forums. 
  3. Excellent at ‘trolling.’
  4. Looks incredible in even a poor attempt at a suit. He’s often unwillingly plastered all over various copies of celebrity magazines due to his Dad being a Lord. Beric wants to hand-make him an outfit that truly fits that broad shouldered yet compact body.
  5. Beric also wants to peel him out of that suit and let him have his very wicked, very debauched, really quite fucked up way because
  6. Ramsay’s internet presence also covers various fetish websites. Ones that Beric also frequents. 



 

Idly he begins to doodle; can leather be made into a three piece suit? Tight black leather. Emphasis on tight, and black, and leather.

 

“Some dickhead committed suicide,” Ramsay rages, barreling through the door with snow in his dark hair, clutching coffee and radiating his usual miasma of malevolence. “Why couldn’t he just go and shoot himself through the head somewhere quiet rather than jumping onto the fucking tube track?”

 

“Yes, Ramsay. People kill themselves to inconvenience you.”

 

“Shut up bitch. Where’s my jumper?”

 

Green suits him, but not as well as red. Slytherin, however, is perfect.

 

“You’re a Hufflepuff, aren’t you?” Ramsay taunts.

 

“Gryffindor. I unfortunately do reckless things to save others.” He taps the scarring on his temple.

 

“You’re a Weasley then. Bill, probably, with those sick scars. Tell me,” and Ramsay leans against the desk, mercurial eyes fathoms deep. “How was it being fucked by a werewolf?”

 

“I’d ask Snape,” he replies with amused ease. “Him and Lupin-”

 

“Hate sex. All the beautiful hate sex and angst. Who’d I be, then?” He smells of strong coffee, and a faint hint of nicotine, and something furious.

 

“Definitely a Lestrange. Probably Rodolphus. Sadistic pure-blood supremacist suits you.

 

“Stop talking so prettily to me, Weasley. It’s almost like you want me to seduce you and bring you to the Dark Side. With my cock.”

 

* * *

 

  
**_Day 5_ **

 

Today’s coffee, as dark as Ramsay’s heart, is accompanied by a raisin bagel smothered in ginger jam. Beric, a whore for anything sweet, dives in, inhales, devours.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Saw it, thought of you.” Ramsay stares at him without caring though his eyes glitter evilly. “Ginger with a hole in it.”

 

“So romantic.” 

 

“What we got today?”

 

“The Joker one I promised you.” He sucks his fingers idly before noticing Ramsay’s rapt attention on his mouth. “After all, chaotic evil needs a figurehead, doesn’t it?”

 

“Knew you were a D20 bitch.”

 

“You’re such a halfling.”

 

A surprisingly strong hand wraps around his wrist. Ramsay chews his nails, wears a thin-banded blackish ring with the Bolton flayed man enamelled in pink. “If you weren’t keeping me in Sevenmas jumpers I’d flay your face for calling me short.”

 

“You are short.” Beric smiles vaguely as the grip tightens and his bones sing pleasingly painful. “It suits you. You’re compact, and easily portable.”

 

Teeth miss his ear by an inch, and it amuses him greatly that Ramsay has to basically climb onto the counter to lash out. He doesn’t stop holding Beric’s wrist though, so tightly that his hand turns purple. Bolton would be perfect at sex. Just twistedly perfect.

 

* * *

 

**_Day 6_ **

 

“Today you have a choice, considering you’re a computer gamer-”

 

Ramsay eyes him, all curling lips and innate evil, and Beric wonders, for the eighth time that morning, why he ends up wanting to have kinky sex with the weirdest men. Thoros. Great bloke. Passionate about his religion. Got off on setting fire to things, which proved difficult in bed because duvet covers are, by nature, flammable. Not that Dondarrion is one to talk; he’s as R’hllor as his ex, and has far too much flame tattooed across his shoulder blades for someone who might just enjoy burning things as a concept. 

 

“Someone’s been Googling.”

 

“I like to know my customers, to give them the benefit of the retail experience.”

 

“Did you find the porn I did?”

 

Beric curses internally as his breathing tightens just enough for Ramsay to notice, and the young man starts laughing. It’s an eerie sound, like a cracked bell, and his paleness is all Gollum - if, obviously, Gollum were a sexy Hobbit  _ a la _ young Bilbo Baggins and not the fishbelly weirdness that he becomes during his possession of the One Ring. Though, to be quite honest, the obsession is a little attractive; Beric’s always wondered about belonging to someone in an intimate manner. Collars. Intimate scarring. Rampant constant sex.

 

It’s been too long. Beric needs to get laid, stat.

 

“Your face.” He leans in, chooses the Mario sweater over the Sonic one, looks up through dark eyelashes in a way that prickles the back of Beric’s neck and makes his trousers a little too snug. “Not that you’d find any porn of me.”

 

“Oh.” Damn.

 

“I only send out wank fodder to people I really want to mess with.” 

 

If Ramsay wanted to mess with Beric, it’d be perfectly fine with him.

 

“If I didn’t want to piss Dad off with all this Sevenmas jumper shit on his account, I’d pay you in GIFs of me jerking off wearing nothing but my leather jacket and boots, moaning your name between dialoguing about pounding your arse. But we want to annoy Roose, don’t we?”

 

Dondarrion licks his lips, arches an eyebrow, feigns disinterest while cursing the Seven that Ramsay bloody Bolton is far too perceptive for Beric’s own good, and even better at driving a man insane just for the hells of it. “Your relationship with your father is an interesting one, isn’t it?”

 

“Utterly fucked up, just like me. No wonder my fat stepmother is pregnant. Daddy wants a redo, so he doesn’t make the same mistakes again.”

 

It’s all said lightly, but underlying the words slicks an oily anger, a glass shard hurt, a suggestion of murderous rage that makes Beric understand Ramsay just a little more than he did ten minutes before.

 

“Ever thought about therapy to deal with those negative emotions?”

 

“Yeah, because I’ve not been seeing someone once a week for the last twelve years, bitch.” His tone roughens, scratches, bleeds. Today, when Ramsay pulls on the sweater, there isn’t any lingering flirtation of skin - just a frantic cramming of jersey onto his form - and then he’s out of the shop without pausing for a cuppa, or a chat, and with a jab of his middle finger.

 

Beric pissed him off by probing too deeply; hypocritical since he hates his usual clientele needling him endlessly about his facial scars.

 

His guilt isn’t assuaged by a cheeky iced slice and a nice coffee brought in by Oberyn, who comes into the shop to bemoan that the cute Tyrell, who he’s been chasing for weeks after fitting him for one of the bespoke silken shirts Martell is famous for, hasn’t responded to the text message flirting in the usual lustful manner of his other conquests.

 

“The short handsome leather boy comes in every morning,” he purrs, sipping his tea.

 

“He’s got a bet with workmates regarding Sevenmas jumpers.”

 

“He has very tight jeans.”

 

“Lust after your Tyrell and let me have my Bolton.”

 

Oberyn raises an elegant eyebrow. “A Bolton? Your taste, my dearest Beric, is...singular.”

 

* * *

 

**_Day 7_ **

 

“Beric.”

 

It’s the first time Ramsay’s called him his name. Usually it’s pronouns, or insults that revolve around his hair colour, parentage, or height. 

 

“Yes, Ramsay?”

 

“You’re coming to the Sevenmas party at work tonight.”

 

“Am I?” Mildly, though Beric fights down the urge to ask if this is a date, what does he wear, does he need to get in vast amounts of condoms and gallons of lube, and will Ramsay please, for the love of the Seven, shag him over the counter if they can find a step stool to negate the height issues. Please. And, if Bolton would be so kind, could he please leave on the Doc Martens and the very tight fitting serial killer style leather gloves. Please.

 

“Yeah. You are. I told them you’re coming, so you’re coming.”

 

Coming. With Ramsay. For a moment he spaces out into possibly post-orgasmic bliss, before Beric returns to the room, brings out today’s  _ piece de resistance _ of a jumper -  _ Halo _ , the game Bolton makes YouTube videos of. Dondarrion has no idea what actually happens in it, and it reminds him a little too greatly of Qohor (though he’s actually rather more talented with a rifle than anyone who plays the game, and has definitely killed more people). The character, wearing a red hat with a white furry edge, is apparently Master Chief, but Beric doesn’t understand why he needs waking up before he hands out presents.

 

“Asking, not demanding, is more usual in these circumstances.”

 

“Fine. Come with me to the Sevenmas party?” The end of the sentence rises nominally, indicating an unwilling question.

 

He lets Ramsay stew, twitchily, for a little longer than is comfortable, then smiles. “Of course.”

 

“Yeah. Alo. Might have said you’re my fucktoy by the way. Might want to do that boyfriend shit people do.”

 

* * *

 

_**Evening** _

 

‘That boyfriend shit’ is apparently Ramsay code for ‘we need to look like we’re together, because everyone at this law firm knows I’m a psychopath and I hate being on my own at Sevenmas parties even if I hate everyone because I’ve got no one to piss off, so I get drunk and try and murder everyone with cocktail sticks. Also, they don’t believe I’ve got a boyfriend because they don’t think anyone’s that masochistic, and I didn’t actually describe you as that, but Willas fucking Tyrell has a romantic streak and got really excited, and since he pretty much owns the firm, and is my boss, and I don’t want to get sacked, just go along with it. I don’t care about pissing him off, but if I don’t have my own money I’ve got to go and beg Dad for cash, and I’m buggered if I’m doing that because he’ll make me grovel.’

 

So. Quite straightforward really.

 

“So, you must be Beric?” The man with the cane and the curling hair is ridiculously pretty, with the sort of wide-eyed innocence that explains why Oberyn’s not managed to shag him yet. “How lovely to meet you. I’m Willas. Ramsay has told us so much about you.” Tyrell glances nervously at the aforementioned and obvious bane of his existence, trying to not draw too much attention.

 

“All good things, I hope?” Customer service and appeasing very old and very rich men, combined with Beric’s natural charm, makes him really good in social situations.

 

“H-He says,” and another of those terrified looks, “that you’re-” and Beric braces himself for one of Ramsay’s hatingly affectionate insults, “the best man he knows.”

 

That throws him off.

 

As does the rest of the night. ‘That boyfriend shit’ includes, but isn’t restricted to Ramsay’s arm around his waist, hand in the back pocket of his jeans. A kiss to the patch of skin just below Beric’s ear - he was sitting down for that, obviously. Being brought food, and a drink. Fingernails scritching lightly at the inside of his wrist. Being called love. It’s all done with a strange sort of intensity, as if Ramsay’s concentrating particularly hard on being romantic because of the audience.

 

Beric?

 

Beric doesn’t like it. It’s at odds with Ramsay’s casual violence, his tendency towards the insulting and cruel. This feels so fake that his teeth ache. Where are the innuendos? The remarks about death, and maiming? The Ramsay he wants to shag over the desk in his shop? Ramsay looks uncomfortable with it all, like someone’s put aluminium foil into his fillings.

 

“Ramsay?” They’re outside on the fire escape. Oberyn’s turned up and is sweet talking an alarmed but slightly inebriated Willas. Stannis Baratheon’s getting off, tipsily because Theon Greyjoy spiked the punch, with that nice Davos who keeps the building in order. Daenerys Targaryen, the third lawyer - barristers come in threes, and it’s quite worrying - talks about her bearded dragons rather too loudly to Theon’s sister. Yara looks better in a suit than Greyjoy does. It’s the usual Sevenmas party, though the attendees are rather more upmarket than the usual office bash.

 

“What?” Teeth dig into the filter of his cigarette.

 

“What the hells is going on? You’re being attentive.”

 

“Being romantic. Like a fucking boyfriend. Like I’ve got to pretend to be.”

 

“Ramsay.” He breathes through his nose, settles himself on the chilly metal steps and looks up at Bolton. He’s carved in frost and darkness, and is ridiculously sexy in the same way as Marlon Brando, or James Dean would be if they wore a Sevenmas sweater. It’s the one Beric gave him; too big, but the Sithness suits Ramsay.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s not you. Romance. It doesn’t suit you.”

 

“I’ve no idea what to do, I’m just copying shit off the telly. I just have sex. None of this emotional bullshit. It’s not what I want to do, but them lot,” and he waves his cigarette towards the door, “expect this shit. I’d rather stab them all and have done with it, but Roose says the next time I fuck up he’s not bailing me out, and I’ll be sent to Harrenhal. He’s got me by the bollocks. He’s always had me by the bollocks. I hate my father.”

 

“If,” and Beric presses his scarred temple against the railings, still watching the young man, “you were my boyfriend, I’d appreciate you being yourself.”

 

“And that means?”

 

“Doing what you do, rather than aping some sort of standard you think others want to see because you don’t want to lose your job. You’re like a wildcat, hissing and spitting because everyone’s clipped your claws, when maybe if someone stroked your fur and understood you then you’d find things a little easier in life? What happened to the insults? The x-rated comments? The way you just grab at something and take it because you can? The passion, and attitude, and arrogance? The being Ramsay Bolton, who doesn’t give a damn?”

 

A boot toe insinuates under Beric’s thigh, bizarrely intimate. “I’m fucked up. Seriously screwed up. I like death, and sex, and black. Anger. I get off on the thought of hurting people, making them bleed. I get off on the thought of them liking it. I watch really hardcore fetish porn. I live on the internet, and hate my family. I don’t give a shit about anyone apart from myself because I’m seriously selfish. I do things without thinking. I collect knives, and I know a hells of a lot about flaying-”

 

“You talk about that like it’s a bad thing, Ramsay.”

 

He snorts, sneering. “It’s not. Especially the flaying. That’s beautiful.”

 

“Why would you want someone, who doesn’t appreciate you being yourself, to like you?” It’s fascinating, eking these tiny strands from the warp and weft of Ramsay’s psyche. He’s so very unlike anyone Beric’s ever experienced, and that is utterly compelling. He’s bloody gorgeous in that way of his. 

 

He's given Beric more attention in the last seven days than he's had in the last four years. Underneath Beric’s affability, and smoothness, and air of calm leadership, he's essentially lonely despite being both popular and surrounded by friends. Twisted. Attracted to darkness and pain, strange eyes, and someone who promises the danger he yearns for from his army days. Mundane lifestyles, even if they are necessary, sit ill upon Beric’s broad shoulders; he’s never been one to be idle when he could be throwing himself out of a plane, or being shot, or belonging to the Special Forces where death is an everyday occurrence.

 

Beric died exactly once, when his own forces accidentally shot him in the face, and he wonders, sometimes, if he came back slightly wrong. He’s obsessive, and focussed, and driven, and needing more and more physicality as he loses his army self and settles, unwillingly, into civilian life. R’hllor texts tell of this. They speak of those who die, who re-emerge different. Beric, as R’hllorite as Thoros, and Mel, and the others who go to the temple in King’s Landing, believes that death takes a toll when one comes back. It’s taken a toll on him. It’s made him fetishise danger because that’s the last thing he experienced before he died. If a woman dies with vengeance upon her lips, all she craves is vengeance. If a man dies because of dangerous and impossible odds, wracked with pain, that’s what he becomes addicted to in his new life.

 

That’s what BDSM’s for. Bless it. It's a bit like Special Forces training for torture situations, but with orgasms.

 

He senses that Ramsay is lonely as well. Lonely. Twisted. Dark. Unlike Beric he doesn't conceal that streak in his soul. Unlike Beric, Ramsay probably hasn't killed anyone, albeit in a life or death war zone situation where, as always with Special Forces missions, the end justified the means. Unlike Beric, Ramsay’s never died. He’s shaped the way he is by circumstance, and personality, and not all because of himself. Amazing genetics helped, physically. Seriously, how did Roose Bolton breed such a son?

 

“The only person who doesn’t give a shit that I’m this way is you, and you’re only in it for the money.”

 

That’s so wrong. Beric moves his head from the cold of the railings, rests his stubbled cheek against Bolton’s sturdy warm thigh and smiles very faintly.

 

“Perhaps the cock, as well, Ramsay.”

 

Bolton stops at that, stares, crouches at Beric’s side. “What?”

 

“You heard me, Ramsay. Perhaps I’m in this because, according to ‘normal people’,” and he punctuates that with his fingers, “I have a very bizarre taste in men. Perhaps I find you far more attractive when you’re comparing me to a shaggable bagel rather than trying to be romantic? Perhaps,” and he shifts so close that he can feel the heat of Ramsay’s breath tinted mintish with menthol cigarettes, “I want to show you where the scars end. It’s on my arse, by the way. Just so you know.”

 

Ramsay moves, shifts serpentine, laves his tongue along the flesh below Beric’s ear that he kissed boringly earlier, allows his scraping teeth to suggest biting and blood.

 

“You’ve stalked me online. You know what I like.” A warning or a promise; Beric doesn’t know which.

 

“Perhaps,” and his lips are dry, “you’d like to tie me up and try every single perverted thing you can think of on my willing body, Ramsay? Because I’d like that.”

 

“Even-?” He makes a perfectly obscene hand gesture that sends Beric’s world sparking.

 

“Even that. No. Especially that. Please try that.”

 

He ends up with Bolton straddling his legs, all muscle and flesh and leering. Ramsay’s solid, and heavier than expected, and his grinning sends him beautifully demented. He's gorgeous in a particular way; sexy rather than handsome, utterly deviant, unashamedly perverse.

 

“I hate that boyfriend shit. I’m fine with fucktoy shit though. Want to be my fucktoy?”

 

What is a boyfriend? Naught but a word. A lover by any other name would be as sweet.

 

“Go on, then.”

 

Beric allows his hands to find Ramsay’s thighs, but they are captured in an instant in a handcuff secure grip as white teeth find his earlobe, nip a fraction too hard for most people but sends Beric - robust, nigh on indestructible because R’hllor wills it, craving the sting - shuddering.

 

“Your shop. I’ve wanted to fuck you over the counter for the past week.” Another bite to the throat, before Ramsay tucks his dark head under Beric’s jaw. “We’ll use some of those shitty old man ties.”

 

“Those are expensive,” he creaks from a mouth metallic with want, Ramsay’s overheated obsessively hissing voice vibrating all the way to Beric’s cock with frightening and wonderful yearning. If he wanted to, it'd be easy enough to escape from the clutches of the Bolton astride his hips, but wouldn't that be foolish? Idiocy. Especially when he's about to get laid. Seriously seriously laid.

 

“Put any damages on Dad’s account,” Ramsay says, before he gets to his feet, fists Beric’ red-gold hair in mercilessly tight fingers, tugs. “Want to tie you up and make you scream for me, bitch. Want to split you open and watch you bleed. Mine. You're mine. Might keep you if you’re good. My screwed up enormous ginger fuck toy who needs me to break him apart.”

 

Beric knows his normal meter was broken years before with Thoros, and Qohor, and life-changing injury, and death. R’hllor helped with the spiritual side, but bodily and emotionally he’s never met anyone who could offer him the danger he craves. Ramsay is the first person who unabashedly gets what Beric needs. Ramsay Bolton is danger after all, wrapped up like a Sevenmas present in a leather-booted evilly attractive package, who understands that the human body needs to be pushed and pushed, tested to the limit, in all ways.

 

The fervency of Ramsay’s words is far more romantic than any sweet nothing in the entire damnable world.

 

* * *

 


End file.
